The Making of Sherlock Holmes
by shortstoriessherlock
Summary: When Sherlock said that he only had one friend, he lied. He had another friend; a best friend. Vallie. Or maybe she wasn't. She'd refused to see him since he had attacked her whilst on a high and had told him that unless he got completely clean, he'd never see her again. He vowed to himself that he would get well again. Not just for himself. For her. Some Sherlock/OC friendship


The Making of Sherlock Holmes

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'When Sherlock said that he only had one friend, he lied. He had another friend; a best friend. Vallie. Or maybe she wasn't. She had refused to see him since he had attacked her whilst on a high and had told him that unless he got completely clean, he'd never see her again. He vowed to himself that he would get well again. Not just for himself. For her. Some Sherlock/OC could be seen as just a friendship.'

Hey again everyone! Thank you all so my for the overwhelming response to my first story, 'Finding Perspective'! 400+ hits in one night! It made my morning, honestly.

Anyways, this story will also be a one-shot. I hope you enjoy it. It's a little different to the last one in some of the themes, but it should still be good. I hope you all like it.

R&R people! Don't forget that I will take your prompts and ideas and form them into a story; if you don't mind me doing so, the story will be dedicated to you! If you're interested in submitting an idea, PM me, leave a review with the idea or check my profile for my tumblr name and ask me! I'd be delighted by any interest!

Thank you all and enjoy!

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Sherlock looked up from his university book and stared at the person stood in front of him. He said nothing, but looked on in bewilderment.

She looked normal enough, apart from the long scar that ran from her jaw to the middle of her nose. He could tell that she had a cat, was studying psychology, loved books, was a rebellious teenager, was single and had smoked for a period of time. That was completely normal. She even looked normal. Nothing overzealous in her way of dress and nothing odd had been done to her hair. She was strange because she was talking to him. Nobody ever talked to him.

"Sorry?" He spoke quietly, looking more curious than incredulous. The woman looked a little more nervous now. "What are you reading?" She repeated confidently, though she did not look directly at him. Sherlock, feeling a little put out, not used to talking about something so minor, replied.

"A book on human biology. Why do you ask?" The woman looked a little embarrassed. "I-I was curious," she told him, heat rising to her cheeks and she looked at him for the first time. "It's nearly after hours now you know. The library will be closing soon."

Sherlock, a little startled, looked up and sure enough, there was nobody else in the library. No one except this odd woman and himself. "...I didn't notice."

She laughed lightly, genuine amusement in her tone. "I can tell." A slightly uncomfortable pause followed. "So what are you doing in the library so late then?" Sherlock inquired, sitting up and paying less attention on his book. "If it's as late as you say, then why are you here?"

The woman stayed silent for a moment. "...I was curious," she started slowly. "About you." Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly. Curious? About him? Why on earth would she be interested in someone like him? She saw my look and continued hastily. "Everybody is talking about you," she blurted out. "Apparently, you can tell someone their life's story by looking at them. I wanted to know more."

Sherlock's eyebrows raised. "Very direct aren't you?" He spoke flatly, sounding and looking a bit irritated. She looked thoroughly embarrassed. "I-I'm so sorry," she spoke quietly, for the first time looking very uncomfortable. "I'm just not very good with... People. I-"

"-Don't have many friends?" Sherlock finished, making her tense slightly and look at the ground. "I could tell, don't look away. That's what you wanted wasn't it?"

The girl looked back up and looked somewhat irritated. Before she had a chance to speak, Sherlock dropped his book to the side of him and stood up abruptly, walking closer to her with slightly narrowed eyes. The girl looked startled and a little afraid; she backed away until there was at least a comfortable distance between them both.

"Valentina Harrison," he started in a deep tone; one which clearly indicated that the conversation was going to be long. He pointed to an ID card that was hung around her neck. It was probably a pass for a local club or pass lock for something. "Nineteen, currently in your first year of uni studying psychology. You're single, have a cat and if I'm correct used to be a rebellious teenager."

Valentina looked like she was to interrupt, but Sherlock continued. "You're here on a scholarship; obvious. You were a rebellious teen, most likely wanted out of your parents residence as soon as possible, and had enough sense to see that to do that you needed to get the grades good enough to get into a decent uni. Cambridge," he motioned to the space around him. "Job well done on your part I must say. Not easy to get a scholarship here."

Valentina looked a little stunned and no longer was able to protest. Sherlock continued. "You got on well enough with your mother, not so well with your father, and left home at 16. Abusive relationship for years, most likely because he was an alcoholic. So far so blatantly painfully obvious," he motioned to her face and wrists. "Other than the cut running over your left cheek, there's practically unnoticeable traces of abuse in the cheekbones and your wrists have been broken before, perhaps in a struggle. Maximum, four year old. But there's no sign of any scars older than-" he stopped abruptly and smiled ever so slightly, both hands placed in a critical way in front of his lips.

"Ah," he breathed, eyes wider and alight with fascination. Valentina looked pale. "P-Please," she whispered. "Don't..." Sherlock gave her a penetrating look. "You moved out for a different reason didn't you? Something happened at home that forced you to." She didn't reply, just stood there as if immovable. She looked visibly ashen, as if she were going to be violently sick. "There are no scars visible to me younger than about 3 years. So something stopped him hurting you. That one on your face is the most recent." There was a pause that lasted several moments but his gaze never left hers. Valentina's heart thudded in her chest. Sherlock's head leaned back in realisation.

"He died."

Valentina closed her eyes, swallowing with difficulty and taking a deep, though shaky breath. Sherlock paced forwards quietly and spoke in a dubious tone. "He didn't die accidentally. Every time I've mentioned your father, you're eyes averted mine and you expressed one emotion as clear as day." He leaned closer to her face and practically whispered. "Guilt."

Valentina inhaled sharply and turned from him, starting to walk away, but he reached out and held onto her arm. She stopped, eyes still shut but she was visibly shaking. Sherlock looked a little incredulous. "You murdered him, didn't you?" He spoke accusingly, sounding viscous and almost morbidly delighted. "In cold blood, in revenge for what he'd put you through! I bet you enjoyed seeing-"

Valentina suddenly ripped her arm away from him, whipping around to face him with rage and tears shining in her eyes. Sherlock was stunned. "Shut up," she spat viscously, though the tears and wracking sobs made it hard for her tone to hold as much acid. "Just shut up! You- You stand there, like you have the fucking RIGHT to judge m-me. Form twisted impressions of me - you know nothing! Absolutely NOTHING!"

She near enough shouted the last part and wiped viscously at her eyes to remove the tears. Sherlock sneered felt anger and pent up frustration rush through him at her display. "You wanted a first hand account of me," he spoke in a low growl. "And that's what you got. You found out firsthand what I do and how I do it; you found out more about me. Everyone has done the same and realised that it makes me too much of a liability. Now you can join the rest of them and agree when they say that I'm a freak!"

Valentina glared at him. "Whilst you are cruel enough to rub in my face the darkest hours of my past," she spoke a little more calmly. "I am not the type of person to do that to anyone. Your ability to read people is astounding and brilliant; it's a true gift. One that I wish I had the fortune of having; why on earth would I label you as a freak for that?"

Valentina continued in an even angrier tone. "But I never asked for a deduction of myself Mr Holmes, as I already know too well who I am and what I've done. And what makes it worse is that you delighted yourself in a completely false ideal about the version of events!"

It wasn't clear about what had shocked Sherlock most; the fact that he was wrong, or that Valentina thought his gift was astounding. "I said that I wanted to know more about you," she spoke a little more calmly, though her voice shook in anger. It was distracting her from how upset she was feeling. "I meant that I wanted to get to know you. Be a friend; I don't have the courage to do that often but I thought that out of all the people I could have asked, would have been most willing to receive it. I never wanted to scorn you for your abilities or misfortunes. That you would think so little of me is insult enough. Your observations of me don't even come into the equation; because they are entirely true."

Sherlock was going to speak, but Valentina cut him off with a disgusted look. "Whilst your unique ability is brilliant and interesting, you are a truly unpleasant man. It is not the other way around. Your observations were correct; but the way you dealt them to me was like an attack. That is why I am upset. I wanted to know you better; it seems like I massively misjudged your character. Now I understand why you have no friends; why would anyone want to be friends with someone who is so far up their own arse that they think they can say whatever the hell they want?"

Her anger was fading and now tears fell anew. "I wish you a nice life Mr Holmes," she croaked. "Because no one else will want you to." With no further words, she spun around and fled the room.

Sherlock stood, staring at where she had left, and being unable to shake the regret that pounded through him. She'd wanted to be friends with him. She had found his abilities fascinating. She'd actually been unaffected by them. But he'd messed it up by assuming she was like everyone else.

He glanced around the room and felt something unidentifiable settle in the pit of his stomach. Silence echoed.

He was alone again.

* * *

Sherlock spent the rest of the night lamenting, in the privacy of his mind palace, the idiocy of his actions. He couldn't sleep. He didn't want to. He didn't even really need to. He'd had a full nine hours of sleep the night before; enough to keep him going for a good few days.

The following morning he went about his day as usual; the lectures, lunch and boredom. But he still felt a little disturbed by what had occurred the night before. The way she had described him had angered him, but he'd found himself realising that her observations were not untrue. And he hated it.

He'd never had someone speak to him in that way before. Made him have to think so deeply about HIMSELF before; he didn't like it. He hated how much she had bothered him. Not just her words, though they were mainly his focus, but also her story; what had he gotten wrong?

If there was one thing in the world Sherlock Holmes hated to be, it was definitely being wrong.

He couldn't read anything deeper about her; nothing other than the fact she had killed her father. It wasn't only the evidence of abuse, signs of a rocky relationship and the guilt that made it likely that she had played a part in his death.

It was made evident by the physical state of her hands and the way she moved them.

She had never displayed the palms of her hands. Never directly to him, so that he could see them. No, she had always made sure he could only see the backs of her hands. Even when she was standing, with her arms by her sides, the backs of her hands always faced him. Like there was something on her palms that she didn't want him to see. Like he would be able to perceive there had been something there.

But what parts of her hands that he could see looked red and raw. Like they'd been washed vigorously or exposed to a chemical irritant.

Sherlock wasn't entirely sure about what that meant. But it was driving him mad trying to work it out. There was only one way he would be able to settle everything. Make him feel sure of himself.

"I have to find her." Sherlock spoke softly, looking to sky with a frown.

* * *

Sherlock opened the door to the roof of student accommodations with several emotions running through him. Excitement, determination, discomfort and uncertainty; he had no idea how this was going to work out.

Usually his plans were good and solid; no mitigating circumstances or chances of it backfiring. But this was not the case. This- This WOMAN was a complete enigma. He had no idea how she would react to him, feel or respond at all. He was going in blind.

But he needed to know.

When he stepped out onto the slightly chilly rooftop, he looked around carefully until he spotted her. He inhaled sharply.

She was sitting on the edge of the building with her legs draw up to her chest, arms resting on her knees, chin resting on her arms, and a cigarette in one hand, wispy smoke emitting from it, a glittering trail of tears making paths down her cheeks.

Sherlock felt himself hesitate slightly, unsure of how he would address her, before walking forwards and standing only a few feet behind her to the side. She didn't acknowledge him, but continued to stare out into the night before her.

Sherlock silently took a seat next to her on the wide ledge of the building and tried to follow her line of sight; she was looking blankly out into the darkness of the night.

"I thought you didn't smoke anymore," Sherlock spoke quietly. Valentina's face softened and a hint of smile curled the corners of her lips. "I relapse every now and then," she replied in a hoarse voice, thick with emotion. "Depends how caught up I get in the past I get." She leaned further into her arms and let out a shuddering breath.

For a long time after that, neither of them spoke.

Sherlock found himself feeling startled when she finally broke the silence, voice even softer than it had been earlier.

"I wasn't at home when my father became unstable that night," Valentina spoke softly. "He was drunk. Furious and violent enough to want to.. To want to do damage." Sherlock listened intently, though he never looked away from the darkness before him.

"I may not have been home...But my mother was."

Sherlock's eyes widened and for a moment, shock flickering through his stiff body. He narrowed his eyes and his fists clenched in between his crossed legs.

Silence echoed on the desolate rooftop.

He could hear that her throat was tighter and that she was trying to make her voice sound as even as possible. She was failing.

"He only hurt her because I wasn't there. I had gone out on a walk. When I got back..." She cleared her throat and spoke as clearly as she could. "When I got back I was too late to help her condition. He'd ruptured several internal organs and managed to make her hit her head so hard that a bleed had started in the brain. She was already unconscious when I first saw her. There was nothing I could do."

Everything she said was spoke with an emotional detachment; something that didn't surprise Sherlock. He didn't understand it, but he knew that this was a way for her to cope. She paused for several moment before taking a long drag from her cigarette and exhaling deeply, closing her eyes. "My father was sat at the table only feet away, fists bloody and staring straight ahead at the wall. He seemed to be reasonably tranquil and I assumed it was safe to try and attend to my mother without making him angry."

She shook her head and letting out a humourless breath. "I couldn't have been more wrong." Sherlock glanced at her.

She huffed humourlessly. "As soon as I got anywhere close to her, he stood from the chair and grabbed a knife from he side of the kitchen table; he pointed it at me. Yelled that I was not to go anywhere near her, that it was my fault that she got hurt." She shook her head, trying to rid herself of the memory.

"Then he just stormed at me; ran forwards brandishing that fucking knife and knocked me to the ground. I tried to get up and run but he had me properly pinned; all I could do was hold his arm as far from me as possible." She rolled up her sleeves and exposed her forearms; they were covered in deep, painful looking cuts.

"I couldn't completely fend him off," she told him quietly, almost as if she was shameful of the fact. "These were mostly made in the ensuing trouble. Then he managed to catch my face," she pointed to the unmissable scar on her cheek. She shut her eyes. "I almost can't remember how it happened," she spoke softly. "I think I just panicked; my arm lashed out and the knife he held in his arms embedded into his forehead."

She shuddered, tears pricking her eyes and she buried her face in her arms. "He died instantly. I managed to make it to the front door before I passed out; a neighbour had heard me screaming and came over. I pretty much collapsed at her feet. I got let off on the manslaughter charges because it was in self defence and completely accidental; I got given accommodations and have been making my way forwards ever since."

Sherlock didn't know what to say. He'd managed to get everything he'd thought about this woman so completely wrong that he was both mortified and saddened by her story. Not something he had ever felt before.

He looked to her when he heard light sobs and saw that she had thrown the cigarette over the edge of the building and now completely buried her face in her arms.

"I-I didn't mean to," she croaked, though her voice was muffled. "I never m-mean to kill him; I never wanted to hurt anybody! But he's DEAD because of me and it still HURTS!"

She more or less screamed the last words into her arms and Sherlock tensed. He knew she didn't want to kill him and she was still haunted by her experience. She'd be haunted by that mistake for the rest of her life.

Sherlock shifted slightly towards her, albeit a little wearily and lifted his hand. Slowly, though hesitantly, he put a hand on her back and he rubbed gently. Her breathing hitched and she relaxed slightly, thus making her crying quieten after only a few minutes.

Neither said a word when all fell quiet; but the comfort and peace that came with the silence made up for everything.

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And that's the first chapter done! There won't be many of these at all, but I couldn't spread the writing over any more chapters. And I couldn't keep the story from you for too long!

Once I've written more, I will upload another chapter to the story!

Review me if you can please! They make me very happy and I like to know how you liked the story xx

See you soon everyone, hope you liked it!


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